


Claws Sunk in Deep

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "He ducks. Feels one of his feet suddenly skid out, sliding against the surprisingly slick ground – shouldn’t stone provide more resistance than this? – and finds himself tumbling to the ground. Fuck."Geralt and Jaskier have a less than pleasant encounter with some ghouls. Swords are swung, injures are had, Geralt does his best and Jaskier is tired.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 224





	Claws Sunk in Deep

Gods, sometimes he wishes he were less accustomed to this.

That being arguably a breath away from harm, or gods forbid, death, were still at the very least surprising.

He’s not even sure what they are fighting. Well, what Geralt is fighting, and he’s avoiding. Mostly. Trying to anyway.

He knows it’s quick and agile and definitely dangerous, and currently trying to rip Geralt’s head off.

There are footsteps coming from behind him… well, to be fair a scuttling sound more than clear footsteps. Apparently, there was more than one of… whatever this thing is.

Wonderful.

Gods he wishes he had the energy to be more surprised. 

He spins on his heel, hand reaching for the short blade strapped to his hip, but not yet yanking it free. He doesn’t generally have many advantages in battle, his main one being the simple surprise that results in him fighting back.

It’s not much, but that jolt of surprise, in the right moment… well he’d wager it had saved his life on more than one occasion, and from it he’s found it can be better not to reveal a blade before absolutely necessary.

Weary eyes scan the darkness, heat beat picking up ever so slightly, even if he no longer feels surprise, he can certainly still manage fear.

A shift, in the shadows, an uneven patch, draws his attention.

It moves, creeping forward, enough to reach the edges of the moonlight spilling in from a nearby window. Enough for him to make out its form. Vaguely humanoid, enough to have recognisable limbs and a face anyway, and fully unpleasant.

He has a sinking feeling it may not quite have the mental capabilities to manage being surprised.

It looks at him, head cocking in clear interest, - ah, fuck, - and lunges.

He yanks the short knife free, fuck it, surprise is doing nothing for him here, throws himself to the side, swinging wildly as he goes.

Feels the blade connect with something, slice in easy before striking bone, hears the pained scream in response. Success.

Feels the knife leave his hand as the creature rips itself away, blade going with it, buried too deep to easily pull free. Right. Possibly less of a success than initially assumed. 

It screams again. The sound seems to reverberate through his skull, he feels it, vibrating through his bones, settling somewhere deep within him, along an uncomfortably dull acceptance to the fact that this thing was undoubtedly about to try to kill him.

And he no longer has a weapon.

Wonderful.

It swings, he slides to the side, lets it sink it’s claws into the crumbling stone wall behind them rather than his body, eyes flicking through the gloom, trying to look for anything even vaguely… weapon shaped.

It lunges before he has the chance to find anything.

Geralt’s voice rings out from behind him, “duck.”

He ducks. Feels one of his feet suddenly skid out, sliding against the surprisingly slick ground – shouldn’t stone provide more resistance than this? – and finds himself tumbling to the ground.

Fuck.

His hand lands in something soft, sticky and concerningly warm. Blood, he guesses. Right. well, that would explain the slickness.

A heavy thump from above him, one of Geralt’s swords connecting with whatever it was. Good. Let the damn Witcher deal with it. 

It flails back from the blow. Lain dead? A beat. Then it stands back up, ah, that would be a no to being dead then.

His head snaps around to Geralt, the man once again caught up fighting his own assailant… assailants. There were three of them. of fucking course there were three of them.

Gods, was a break really too much to ask for?

It scrambles forward, moving with quite frankly terrifying speed. And he’s lain prone. Fuck.

Instinct takes over, he curls in his head, rolls sharply to the side, narrowly avoiding swinging claws. Scuttles up to his feet, hands finding… something along the way, a block of wood, still thankfully strong enough to have some use left in it.

He swings, brings the wooden club sharply down over it’s head. The wood splinters. Unsurprising.

His attacker seems more annoyed by the action then in any way hurt.

Fucking fantastic.

It lunges. He sees a chance, a slim, wild chance, takes it anyway, diving forward, hand curling around the handle of his blade, yanking it free from its home buried in the being’s shoulder.

It snarls angrily at the move, wound ripped open, swinging for him.

This time, claws connect. Drawing a mercifully shallow red line down his arm, shirt sleeve and skin shredded alike.

He swings back.

Gets lucky.

Knife connects, burying into the fleshy and exposed neck, he tears it free, dragging it down in the movement, all but decapitating it.

The being drops.

Thank fuck.

There’s a crash from behind. He turns, finds Geralt hacking at the creature half wrapped around his head, claws digging into the Witcher’s back. The second one raises shakingly from the ground, clearly just thrown aside by the Witcher.

He throws the knife. An instinctual, adrenaline move.

It connects.

With Geralt’s shoulder.

Ah, apparently injured arms make for terrible aim. Fuck. 

Geralt manages a pained grunt, shooting him an admittedly earned glare and a “dammit Jaskier.”

It takes him a second to realise Geralt was not the only one to make note of the Knife now stuck in the Witcher’s shoulder.

The creature on the ground clearly noticed it as well.

It’s an easy decision, keep at the big asshole with two swords or go for the trembling idiot who just managed to once again lose his one and only weapon.

Unsurprisingly it decides to aim for the easier of the prey. Oh fuck.

It dives at him.

He finds himself lying prone once more, head bangs painfully onto the hard ground behind him, claws digging into his chest.

At the very least it’s good to know from the absolute and complete overwhelming wave of terror currently inhibiting him he is, in fact, not accustomed to this just yet.

Or perhaps that’s just down to the truly amazing how pain manages to override every other sense, his world rapidly narrowing to the ringing in his head and the puncture wounds in his torso.

The claws are still sunk in, pinning him down. But fuck it, if he’s going to die anyway… might as well try within his last moments.

He swings a fist into what he thinks might be where it’s ear is, assuming it has ears. Uses the momentum of the swing to try and roll, yank himself to the side, feels the claws rip through his flesh as he moves. 

His vision goes white, overwhelmed with pain, chokes in a breath as he struggles backwards, gasping.

Realises he had at least managed to wiggle free in the mess.

The being in front of him tilts its head, considering him for a moment, before lunging forward.

He has just enough time to think about how he’s most definitely about to die before a rather large sword very kindly decides to liberate the creatures head from the rest of its body.

The head rolls, comes to a stop beside him, eyes still sluggishly blinking.

He shutters. The creature’s head offers one final twitch, mouth lolling open, gods he wishes he was less accustomed to this. Presses an admittedly shaking hand to his wounds as he takes in the scene, three bloody bodies, a Witcher who’s shoulder looked as though it had met a meat grinder… and several new holes in his chest.

Wonderful.

“What the hell was that?!”

“Ghouls.”

He can’t hold back a disbelieving laugh at the answer, “ghouls?”

Geralt grunts, nudges the corpse with the toe of his boot, “big… and… fast ghouls.”

Ghouls. Lovely.

He moves, aiming to climb to his feet and – oh. Oh shit.

His world shrinks again. Vision going blank, a gasping cry torn from his lips, hand clutching at his chest. He squeezes his eyes closed. Pain overwhelming everything else.

Breathes. Tries to remember to breath, to have enough thought to focus on breathing and not just the fucking pain.

He’s accustomed to this as well, he realises, mind clearing ever so slightly, lying prone once more.

He breathes, feels the cold stone beneath his head. Works on steadying his breath, pushing through. He’s been here before enough to know what to do.

Gods, he needs a break.

He gets a hand cupping his cheek, a sharp and concerned “Jaskier.” He groans, not wanting to open his eyes yet, face Geralt’s concerned stare. Instead he throws an arm over his face, leaning away from Geralt’s touch.

Geralt grumbles, hand leaving Jaskier’s face, and then – OH FUCK. fingers, brushing against his wound, fuck.

He gasps, world exploding into pain once more, hands batting weakly at Geralt. The man relents, removes his hands. He hears tearing, a moment later the hands return, pressing something firmly against the wounds.

He gasps. Gasps again, gulping down air, choking back sobs.

Feels Geralt take up his hand, press it against the cloth held against his wound. He relents, takes the cloth, holding it against him as hard as he dared to.

Geralt’s hands move, fingers running through his hair, checking his head, looking for cracks.

He lets his eyes flutter open. Sighs.

Fuck.

Geralt snorts above him, sits back, clearly satisfied Jaskier’s brain matter isn’t currently leaking out.

The Witcher sighs, looking down at the bard, rests a gentle hand on the man’s chest, an attempt at comfort he assumes.

“Can you walk?”

He nods. Regretting the movement when his head throbs in response but accepts Geralt’s help in climbing to his feet all the same, cloth remaining pressed against his chest.

Feet unsteady he finds himself stumbling, legs shaking from left over adrenaline, Geralt intervenes before he takes another tumble, a comfortable arm sliding around his waist, holding him steady. He goes with it happily, leaning against Geralt, letting the Witcher carry most of his weight.

This too, was familiar, though perhaps not a familiar he was as quick to regret.

He sighs, the Witcher is warm, comfortable even in his firm hardness.

The smell of blood is admittedly less comforting but… he supposes he is currently far from a state of being able to judge.

Geralt hums, murmurs out a soft, “how are you doing?”

He sighs again, unsure of how to respond, manages, “cold, and… sore and bleeding.”

Geralt chuckles, “it will stop.”

“It hurts,” he grumbles back.

Geralt sighs, nods, offers a “I know,” offers a, “you’ll get used to it.”

Yea, he wants to say, yea and maybe that’s the issue.

But he doesn’t. He nods, head resting on Geralt’s shoulder as best it can, trying to take care not to adiate Geralt’s own wounds.

“This is why you should stay outside.” The Witcher says.

He snorts. “I think they would have gutted me just as easily if I was outside… if not easier, you wouldn’t have been there to stop them.” a teasing smile plays on his lips, “my hero,” he croons, half mockingly against Geralt’s neck.

Geralt snorts.

“This is why you stay behind then.” The Witcher says.

If that was the cost of remaining unaccustomed to such brutality… oh it could be tempting at times, but… no.

No.

He knew his decision without thinking about it.

He would not stay squirreled away in some small inn room, hidden away and over-protected.

No. That was not for him.

Geralt seems to know his answer, reading it on his face. The Witcher sighs, doesn’t bother pressing, focusing on guiding Jaskier’s still unsteady feet out of the building.

They take a moment, outside, soaking in the bright moonlight, taking a breath of clean and crisp fresh air.

“Thank you,” he manages. He means it. He knows he could have died. He is grateful he didn’t.

Geralt sighs, presses something into his hands, he looks down, catches sight of his blood-soaked blade glinting in the moonlight. Winces, remembering it sliding deep into Geralt’s flesh.

The Witcher makes no comment on it, moving to wrangle free Roach, the horse thankfully still standing tied where they left her, clearly left alone by the beings that had attacked them.

Geralt swings up into the saddle, he doesn’t miss the way the man flinches, putting necessary weight on his own injured arm. The Witcher turns to stare back at him, gaze heavy. Geralt sighs, mouth opening, clearly wanting to say something. He sighs again, eyes flicking away before managing, “I… worry about you sometimes.”

He sucks in a surprised breath. unable to stop the small smile from sliding across his face at the confession. Offers back an, “I know.” an, “I’m sorry for that, but…”

Geralt grunts, “but you won’t stay behind.”

“No.”

The Witcher nods. Short and sharp, an acceptance he thinks. He nods back.

Geralt offers down a hand, “Come, it’s high time we slink off and lick our wounds clean.”

he wipes his blade roughly on his pants, accepts the hand, lets the Witcher pull him up onto the horse, settling comfortably behind the man. Hands wrapping round Geralt’s waist, letting the press of the man’s body work to maintain pressure on his wounds.

Murmurs out a soft, “I’d rather lick your wounds clean.”

Geralt groans at the words, shakes his head, kicks Roach forward, clearly choosing not to engage.

He smiles, more to himself than anyone else, presses comfortably against Geralt. Warm, familiar. Yes, maybe being accustomed to some of these parts wasn’t so bad after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> the writer in me: 'and then they get on the horse together and its v cute and soft.' the horse rider in me: 'for the love of gods stop before you kill this horse my god.'


End file.
